“She’s a very nice woman, Paul. Top-ten-caliber nice. Wow. The idea of it is enough to set your head spinning. It’s not going to happen, not in a thousand Sundays, but the idea of it . . . they would make very good friends.”
“It’s going to be interesting to see that develop.”
“She won’t tell him. I mean she will, but not directly. The security is too drummed into her thinking by now. But she’ll give him the road map if he wants to pick it up.”
“He’s the one kind of guy I think about with Charlotte Graham and think . . . yeah. He’s another John Key in his own way.”
“Oh, you bring interesting news tonight, Paul. I’m sorry I wasn’t around to hear it in person.”
“Right now it’s just her selling Bryce some very nice coins. We’ll see if it goes further. I’m wondering if you want to go out to the Dance and Covey Gallery this weekend, see what new pieces she’s drawn recently.”
“I’d love that. I wish she’d sell Lava Flows. When you realize it’s just colored pencils, you wonder what God was thinking when he handed her that gift. She’s good with simple mediums.”
“She’s stayed with pen and pencils, and that may be part of the gift. She had the wisdom to learn her tools and stay within them even as the art progressed.”
“Bryce and Charlotte . . . Give me a few days for that to settle in.”
“If you hear anything on your grapevine, share the news.”
“I will.”
He nudged the folder she had been reading to shift the subject. “Your story or the case?”
Ann got more comfortable on the couch, crossing into his space. “Baby Connor. Got a minute for an idea?”
“Sure.”
“From the summary report, the child was found buried near the walk path in the park. The boy was wearing a clean diaper and clean night sleeper. He was wrapped in the light-blue blanket that had been with him when he was abducted. The blanket was over his face, held closed with a small butterfly pin—the size of something you might wear on a lapel. The pin was not something the Hewitt family had seen before. The autopsy showed the child was a victim of ‘shaken baby syndrome,’ had died approximately three days after he was taken.” Her years on the force couldn’t keep out a slight tremor in her voice as she finished. Ann lowered the page. “I’m back to sorting out the clues about who we are looking for. Shake a baby to death suggests a guy not accustomed to being around a crying infant.”
“Agreed.”
“Someone bought diapers, baby clothes. Someone had a butterfly pin—the kind of thing a woman, or more likely a young girl, would have around. It was something lying around the house that was picked up and used after the baby died. Cops should have been looking for a home with other children in it, but I’m going to guess they didn’t realize that early in the investigation.”
“A useful observation.”
Ann sorted through the photos and offered two. “The clothing is new. So there wasn’t a very young child in the house with a sleeper already around that could be used. I would have guessed the clothing would be bought before the crime, but notice the sleeper is the right size for Connor. That’s either a lucky guess or someone was comfortable going out clothes shopping after the child was taken. The diaper’s correctly put on the child, the sleeper, the butterfly pin—those point to there being a woman somewhere in this picture. A wife with a girl six to twelve years old, maybe.”
Paul shook his head. “Other kids in the house old enough to talk, you’d better have a good cover story for the baby. It’s one thing to say you’re baby-sitting for a few hours, another when the baby is there for days. Kids talk.
“We might be looking for a grandmother,” he offered. “She would handle the diaper properly, dress the child correctly, would care to use a pin to secure the blanket to cover the child’s face before burial. A granddaughter’s butterfly pin could easily be lying around the house. A grandmother, a couple sons, money trouble in the family. ‘We’ll take an infant, he can’t tell the cops about us. We’ll get paid fast, and we’ll give him back quickly. A week, we’ve got our problem solved.’ I could hear that conversation around a kitchen table.”
Ann set aside the pages. “I like working cases with you. A grandmother. I don’t think I would have made that leap. Now how are we going to work that idea nineteen years later?”
“First question—did the people we are looking for hold the child, and bury the child, in a place familiar to them? If they did, we need to look in the neighborhood where baby Connor was found and where the Dublin Pub is located—specifically at Meadow Park.”
“The media attention on the crime, the speed with which they buried the child after he died suggests they might have made the mistake of burying him near where they had held him. They went out at night, probably with that particular park, that specific destination in mind. It’s decent odds.”
“Baby Connor’s father, Henry Hewitt, spent a lot of time trying to find who killed his son. After Henry died, those files went to his brother. What we don’t have in our case files about the neighborhood and who lived there nineteen years ago, we may find in his.”
“We should ask if we can see them.”
“When we’ve gone as far as we can ourselves. I don’t want to raise the family’s hope of solving this without cause.”
The ball game came out of rain delay, and Paul put aside the papers and the Falcon family business to watch the game. As heir apparent to the business empire, his job was to keep an eye on the overall picture while others in the family managed the various businesses. He enjoyed the role and would be ready when his dad decided to step aside.
“They never made a ransom demand,” Ann mentioned, still studying the file.
He rubbed her ankle. “First timers. They take the child, they have a plan to call with their ransom demand, have a plan for where to collect their ransom money, but the police and media arrive in larger force than they planned for, and they panic. They’re trying to rethink how to safely get their ransom money, days pass, the child dies. They bury him. If they had walked away at that point, the cops would have had no leads, and they would have gotten away with their failure. Instead, they call.”
He waited for it.
Ann poked him with her toe. “They called.”
Paul smiled. “Wondered when you would get to that obvious fact.”
“They had a falling out. No way I buy the caller is some third-hand person they asked to help bury the child. He was one of the original group.”
“The person who drew that map and made the pub call is probably not the one who killed the child but the partner who lost the chance for a ransom because the child died,” Paul guessed. “He’s sitting at the bar having a drink, brooding over the turn of matters, says stuff it, and decides to make the call. A nice falling out between kidnappers. Otherwise, why call? The cops have no leads on the case, the child is dead, has been successfully buried—walk away and no one is ever the wiser. But you’re angry you didn’t get paid, and it’s the other guy’s fault. So you’ll leave your map and get some cash.”
Ann slowly nodded. “I won’t give my partner up because he can implicate me in the kidnapping, but I’m sure going to collect something for my efforts and not share the cash with him because he’s the one who ruined our payday.”
“It plays. We should look for murders in the neighborhood around the pub and, say, the surrounding ten miles. Maybe this dispute escalated even further after the kidnapping goes wrong. You’re angry your partner killed the child, he’s angry you called the father to get cash. Cops are crawling all over that bar, and they have your partner’s voice on tape. You kidnap and kill a child, it’s not much of a step to kill the guy who might turn you in.” Paul thought about it. “Actually, I’m going to be surprised if that isn’t how this resolved itself. The caller didn’t call back a second time because he’s dead.”
Ann was making notes. “He got paid ten thousand for a phone call. When the money ran out, he would b
e thinking about how he could safely make another phone call. It’s very easy money. Nothing says he wouldn’t have been able to make a phone call from, say, Montana, and asked to have the money mailed somewhere. He’s already proven he knows what happened. He knows the father would have sent it.”
“The father would have paid just on the hope of learning the names of those involved.” Paul settled back on the couch. “The money is too easy and the risks too low not to make a second call. So, he was dead before he spent the first ten thousand. Even if he was cautious about spending the money, I’m guessing ten thousand would last no more than a year. We look for people murdered within a year of baby Connor, and I bet we find one of our kidnappers.”
Ann nudged further into his space. “This is almost too easy, at least in theory.”
Paul tossed a few more peanuts into his mouth, his eyes on the game. “The snag is out there. Cops never put a name to the voice of the caller on that tape. I have a feeling that’s going to be where we smack our heads too.”
SIX
Charlotte’s store now had a radio so Bryce could listen to the sports news or a game while he worked. His staff didn’t yet know this store next to theirs held the estate coins. He simply arrived at Bishop Chicago each morning with another box of coins to hand off to Devon. Part of the reason he hadn’t told them was the fact it wasn’t his property, and Charlotte deserved the extra security that the privacy would bring. Part of it was the fact he simply enjoyed being able to work in a shop where staff weren’t feeling like the boss was in the showroom observing their work.
Bryce heard the back security door chime. He wasn’t expecting anyone, and closed the display case out of habit, flipping the lock that sealed the glass and activated the internal security beam. “Charlotte?”
“Yes.” She came in sandwiched between two dogs.
He crossed the room to take the large box she carried.
“Your sister who does movies, would she be interested in old movie stuff?”
“Probably.”
“Then this box is for her. Turns out Fred, or someone in his family, was around when they went from making silent films to talking ones, and liked going to the movies. There are a couple of autographed movie posters in there that might look nice framed and a bunch of movie premiere artwork and photos. If I try to sell it, I’m just going to get hassled for where I got it and do I have more. I’d rather just pass it on.”
“She’ll appreciate it. Thanks.”
“That’s my excuse for stopping by. I see empty display cases. You’re making progress?”
“The last two weeks have been enjoyable and productive. We’re about halfway through grading group two.”
“I gather from that pleased expression they are proving to be easy coins to sell.”
“We had our first bidding war break out yesterday over an 1850 Charlotte five—Charlotte being the place where it was minted.”
“Got that reference. There are coin guides burning into my tired brain at night to go along with the antique and collectibles guides.”
“I know buying and selling are always different sides of the ledger, but I promise to be fair if you need an informed opinion on a coin.”
“I always figured you would be.” Charlotte leaned against the display case, her hand on the glass. Bryce winced, and she smiled when she saw the direction of his gaze. She rubbed at the print with her sleeve and mostly wiped it off. “You are instinctively a shopkeeper—I do admire that.”
“Only an uncle for a boss can make you appreciate fingerprint-free glass. My first job in this business was cleaning windows and the glass display cases.”
“I shall try to remember and be kinder about where I leave prints.” She studied him. “You asked how many more coins I have to sell.”
“Yes.”
“Why don’t you come and see.” She pulled over a piece of paper and started to draw a map.
He put his hand over hers. “Why don’t I just ride along?”
She looked over at him. “Afraid I’ll change my mind?”
“Yes.”
She laughed and pointed. “I’ve got the dogs.”
“And I’m guessing not your truck if you brought them both with you.”
“The dogs get a yearly visit with the vet who owns their mother. I borrowed John’s SUV.”
“Good. The dogs can share the back seat.”
“It’s close to a five-hour drive. Route 90 to 39 north, past Stevens Point.”
“Figured that.” He smiled at her confusion. “You threw the chum. I bit. I’d like to see the coins enough I looked up where you might have them stored.”
“How do you feel about being the driver?”
“Much better than being the passenger.”
She handed him her keys. “I could use the drive time to get some work done.”
“Hey, our first compromise. We should practice and get good at it.” At her smile, he pocketed her keys. “Give me ten minutes to tell my staff I’ll be gone for the day.”
She placed a hand on his arm. “How are you going to get home?”
“I’ll rent a car. That’s going to be a minor part of this trip, Charlotte. Back in a bit. Remind me to get the sunglasses case out of my car.”
Bryce checked the rearview mirror and moved over to the left lane to pass a construction van. Whatever he had been expecting from this trip, reality had turned out better. It was a quiet, pleasant, peaceful drive. He hadn’t heard more than twenty words from Charlotte, and they had been on the road over three hours now. The dogs were sound asleep in the back after a short stop to let them run.
She had been serious about using the time to get some work done. She’d hauled a briefcase into the front seat with her and used the surface as a desk. She had systematically worked her way through a deep pile of paperwork, writing replies in the margins of pages, signing others, and most of the time simply checking the corner of the page before setting it aside.
She’d started writing letters when they reached the second hour on the road. He glanced over. The stack of envelopes, stamped, ready to mail, was growing. She had her checkbook out now. Food pantries, animal shelters. She was writing out checks to nonprofits. From the list she was working from, a lot of checks.
She caught his look. “Have you ever been hungry, Bryce?”
“Not like you’re implying.”
“I have. I’m going to get to every food pantry in the country before I’m done, and several overseas for good measure.”
“It sounds like a nice way to use some of his cash.”
“Better than keeping more of it than my sister and I need.”
She licked an envelope, sealed it, added it to the stack. “Where would you give some money away if you had extra?”
She asked it as a serious question, and he took his time before he replied. “My church, because I know the budget and the fact the money is spent carefully. Organizations like World Vision and Samaritan’s Purse. They can stretch the impact of the dollars given by partnering with companies donating goods. Some of the micro-loan programs that work with individuals directly can use a few hundred dollars to expand a business that will help support a family.”
“Give me a list.”
He glanced over at her.
“I’d like to give some of his money to churches and religious charities, but I don’t know how to evaluate who does a good job and who doesn’t. So do me a favor and help me out. Give me a list.”
“Okay, I could do that. How much?”
She thought about it, then shook her head. “No. I’m not going to tell you how much. I’d like you to give me one piece of paper, your best ideas and the amounts you would give. If I can give to everything on your list, I will. Otherwise I’ll ask you to prioritize and scale back what is on the page until it fits what I want to give.”
“You might be surprised at the list.”
“Probably not. I bet you’re as cautious with my money as you are with your own.”
“I like to give.”
“Really?”
“I am cautious about spending money, but giving it away? I figure God gives it back again eventually. Either in more cash or simply in things that don’t go wrong in life that would have needed that cash. I give, God makes life work out. That seems like a fair deal to me.”
“Ever tested that?”
“Every time I put a gift in the offering plate.” He glanced over at her. “Generosity is a good thing. So is grace like you offered to your brother-in-law.”
“Don’t make it sound like I’m nice, Bishop. If I could buy my sister out of her troubles I would spend the money in a heartbeat. The problem with gambling—money is the problem, not the solution. I’m sure Tabitha’s right, and I just made matters worse.”
“You did it with good intentions.”
“I’ve done a lot of things with good intentions and most have badly messed up my own life.”
The interstate sign for upcoming exits listed Lincoln, Madison, Route 4, Graham Enterprises. It was Bryce’s first clue something bigger than he had pictured was up ahead. Semitrucks began to pass him on the right, and one came in behind him, filling his rearview mirror. “Charlotte.”
He looked over to make sure she was awake. She’d stopped working after the last stop and closed her eyes. “I want Exit 9?”
She sat up, looked around. “Yes.”
He took the exit and in the rearview mirror counted five semis with turn signals blinking, slowing for the same exit.
A fifteen-foot-high fence paralleled the four-lane road. All Bryce could see on the other side of the fence were rolling man-made berms with neatly mowed grass. The posted speed limit was twenty-five mph, and he understood why as the road widened from four lanes to eight. They had arrived at Graham Enterprises’ main gate. Semis were slow-rolling through the entrance lanes, and two were on their way out.
“Stay in the left lane going north,” Charlotte said, pointing. “We’ll use Gate C and bypass the truck traffic.”
Bishop nodded and followed the van making the same choice. He kept his speed down, expecting to see Gate C coming up ahead, but there was only more high fence paralleling the road. Charlotte opened her briefcase, pulled out her planner. Bryce began to see the occasional warehouse on his right when the berms were low enough.
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